Sons of Fate
by Mistical Ninja
Summary: Two men, bound by a fate they never wanted, yet destined for a war they must fight. Brothers by different families - yet brothers in arms nevertheless. Their lives, their decisions will shape the course of the world for generations to come.
1. Prologue

A/N:Greetings, and welcome to SoF, my newest project! Well in actuality this story is one of my oldest. I just never could find the words to put into the idea. Yet, in recent months, this has changed. To give you a brief background of the actual story, this story starts during the summer of 4th year, and the beginning of 5th. How far will it go? No idea. But I'm going to see. And if you'd like to come with me on this journey, I'd welcome the company, and hope you enjoy it as much as I do! I'm going to try to keep updating once a week, until I'm caught up with how far I've written ahead. That all said, I give you the prologue and first chapter of Sons of Fate!

Please note that the prologue and Ch. 1 have not been beta'd as of the time of posting this. If you want to read the beta'd versions when they come out, please state in your review that you'd like a PM when they've been updated.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters within, save those that I have created myself.

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><p>-SoF:ARC 1- Legion's Rise-<p>

It was a cold stormy night on the 10th of November 1981. The rain filtered softly through the leaves of the ancient trees surrounding the solitary two-story cottage where Frank Longbottom lived with his wife, Alice, and their small son, Neville. In the daytime sun, the cottage gleamed a happy pure white, its shutters and roof tinted an obsidian black, a stark contrast to its alabaster its less-than-countrified appearance, the Longbottoms liked it for its creature comforts and overall hominess.

As the rain tapered off and the clouds broke, moonlight bathed the tiny home, accentuating its whiteness, the glow punching through the clouds as if to cast an ominous warning. The curtains at each of the windows lay open like empty eye sockets in a skull, until a soft light flickered in one room.

This room was small in comparison to its sisters in the cottage, but its walls were dressed almost entirely in beech wood, with a few colourful prints of magical and mythical creatures adorning them. A modestly ornate cot rested along one wall, with more toys than a toddler could ever play with locked away in a rosewood chest across the room. A single matching dresser stood in one corner, filled with all the necessities for a baby to keep him clean, dry, and warm. It was in this room that Alice Longbottom, née McKinnon, lovingly lowered her 15-month-old son onto the firm mattress, covered in a soft flannel sheet with little golden Dragons racing playfully across it. He'd finally settled down after a nasty turn of colic, that had him crying for hours on end for seemingly no reason at all.

As Neville settled into his protective little bed, pulling his toad-shaped teddy bear close to his chest, Alice couldn't help but think of little Harry, the sweet son of her dear friend, Lily Potter. How frightened he must be. How alone. Not even a week ago, Lily and James had been stricken from this world, never to return. Yet, if rumors were to be believed, Harry had somehow stopped He -Who… No, she would never call him that again. That _madman_. First, young Susan Bones had been left stranded and alone by that monster, and now poor little Harry. The mere thought of the plight of those two innocent babes led Alice to want nothing more than to pull her son to her chest and weep for them. She knew just how precious life was, for she had seen it snatched away in mere instants on more than one occasion. How she prayed that Neville—her precious baby boy—would never have to walk through this world without her.

Peace and tranquility-that's what they'd been fighting for. She, Frank, James and Lily—every member of the once-proud Order of the Phoenix—had been fighting for that and a better world. Yet even with Voldemort gone, a few of his staunchest and most-dangerous followers remained. Already she had heard of the continued attacks, the rampages across the countryside that slowed only slightly, as the Ministry struggled to gain the upper hand. And it was that singular need that would draw Alice away from her son's crib. The Order was meeting this very night to discuss plans on how to quell the Death Eater plague. Straightening up, she brushed a loving hand gently across her young Neville's cheek. _May__ Merlin__ watch__ over__ him __if__ I__ should__ fall__ this__ night._

Alice never considered herself a particularly religious woman, but that prayer had become a custom of hers from the moment Neville took his first breath. She was not afraid of fulfilling her duty to the Ministry or to the Order, but she was afraid for her son. Turning then, she strode out into the hallway of her husband's cottage, and took a moment to compose herself as she closed the door. For some unknown reason, it felt as though she were saying goodbye. That thought alone was enough to bring tears to her eyes, and a pang to her heart-but she was a McKinnon and would not give in to fear.  
><em>Audentes<em>_ fortuna__ juvat._ It was the motto of her family, meaning _Fortune__ favours__ the__ bold._ But she did allow a few tears to fall before she steeled herself and started down the hall.

The walls were covered with moving pictures of Frank and Alice hung about on the walls-some depicted them dancing merrily in the rain, others showed family scenes, moments from their wedding, and an especially fun photo in which they shared a simple hot-fudge sundae at a shop in Hogsmeade. She brushed a hand through her closely-cropped ebony black hair as she passed that one in particular. She could still hear Frank's laugh when she'd flicked some fudge onto his face, and the taste of his lips as he stole some of the very same from her lips. Her belly fluttered at the memory when he'd run his hands through her then-elbow- length hair. It still felt odd to have her hair so short, but according to Frank, the long hair made her look regal, while the short hair made her look like a Pixie-at least the Muggle idea of a Pixie-and she very much enjoyed that thought.

Shaking her head out of her reverie, she glanced at the clock then blanched. "Frank!" she cried, rushing to his study.

()()()

Seated at the oak desk in his study, Frank Longbottom ran a frustrated hand through his hair as he stared at the parchment before him. There were so many things he wanted to say-_needed_ to say. He just couldn't find the words. How was a father supposed to warn his infant son that their lives had been put in danger? How could he even explain such a thing? How could he explain to his son that he might be called upon to stand up when older, wiser men had fallen down on the job? How could he express just how proud he was of a son who'd barely begun to grow, let alone grow up? It was maddening.

For the fifth time in an hour, Merlin-knew-how-many times in the past day, Frank drew his wand. "_Scourgify_," he muttered, casting a careful cleaning charm on the parchment, erasing his last sentence. That done, he slumped back in his chair as a tired sigh escaped his lips, tossing his wand haphazardly onto the desk. _Why__ does__ this__ all__ have__ to__ be __so __damned__ difficult?_

He took a moment to glance around him, first at the curtained windows that filled the spaces along the wall between the bookshelves, and then at the books themselves-all of the knowledge he'd accumulated over the years of his rather short life. Sitting there staring at the parchment before him, he wondered what Neville would make of it when he grew up. Would he scoff at it all as a pointless endeavour ? Would he dive into them, hungry for their teachings? There were so many questions to ask and answer, so many little things he hoped to see and experience with his son. Yet that thought brought him crashing back to the here and now, as he stared blankly at the parchment still clutched in between his thumbs and index fingers.

Membership in the Order of the Phoenix meant laying your life on the line, as did taking up the mantle of the Auror. Every time Frank stepped out his front door, he put the lives of his family and himself at risk. He'd seen just that very fact evidenced in its fullest less than a week before. The deaths of the Potters had struck home for Frank-just how much there was to lose and how much he tempted fate to take it from him. It was for that reason that he and Alice had decided to compose this letter to their son. He wondered if James and Lily had done the same for Harry...just in case they couldn't be there for him personally, at least something of them would be.

"Frank!" Alice called from beyond the door. With a start, he threw himself out of his chair, whirling on the door just as it opened. Alice slowed her pace as she entered the study, holding her hands in front of her as if to fend off her husband's attack. He blew a long puff of air through his cheeks and plopped back down in the soft leather desk chair.

"Still trying to add more?" she asked, her previous rush momentarily forgotten as she traversed the expanse of Frank's study. "You've been at that for ages." He hedged for just a moment, and then nodded his head. He turned back to the parchment, a solemn look etched into his face. "I just... I wish there was something more I could do-something I could do or say that could be of more help to him," Frank groaned as he leaned back heavily into the chair. "If I can't be there for him, I want him to have every damned aid possible at his disposal."

Alice smiled lovingly at her husband and leaned down to read over his shoulder. He was, in some senses, a proud man, but even more then that, he was a loving man. A giving man. He would move heaven and earth if that's what it took to keep her and Neville safe.

Slowly, she leaned down, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders placing a small kiss to his cheek. He returned the gesture as best he could; relishing the warmth and relative safety of her embrace. They held one another that way for just a minute, simply savoring one another's proximity.

Reluctantly, Alice pulled back. "Come on, Love. We've got an Order meeting to get to."

Frank blanched at that. "That time all ready?" He asked rhetorically.

Alice nodded, "Aye, and we're already five minutes late. And you know how Alastor gets when anyone's late. And since it's us, Dumbledore'll send out the Queen's Cavalry or something."

_Right.__ The__ Queen's__ Cavalry,__ as__ if__ there__ were__ such__ a__ thing Dumbledore_ _could__ send._"Who's sitting with the boy then," Frank asked, still staring at the parchment. "We're not leaving him alone, here."

"Well of course not, you prat," Alice pretended to scold, whacking him on the arm. "I owled for a nanny to sit with him tonight, you remember Ms. Figg? She's an old dear with too many cats, but she comes highly recommended."

"I hope she doesn't bring her cats," Frank muttered. "They smell."

"Why on earth would she want to do that? Now stop stalling," Alice laughed. "Move your arse."

Frank smiled bitterly for a moment before dawn broke over his own private horizon. "That's it!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide and full of life. At Alice's puzzled expression, he simply shook his head. "The last bit. What I've been needing to put in this letter. It just came to me. Give me five minutes while I wrap this up and seal it in the Grimoire. Please, Love?"

_Shouldn't__ Mrs__ Figg __have __been__ here__ by__ now?_Alice smiled sadly, and bent down to place a gentle, loving kiss to her husband's lips. "Take all the time you need, honey. I'll wait by the fireplace."

He nodded, and watched her go, then turned back to his letter.

"Son, there's something I need to tell you... "

A loud bang like a cannon blast rent the air, jerking the sleeping child from his dreams. He nearly jumped out of his footed pajamas and began to scream. Bright lights flashed with more bangs and booms. Tears coursed down the toddler's cheeks as he screamed for his mama. There was a pounding on the stairs as a familiar male voice shouted past his room. "ALICE!"

Little Neville drew himself up onto his knees and then grabbed hold of the wooden rails to pull himself to a stand, still crying and screaming until his little throat began to burn. And then all went deathly quiet. The child continued to cry until he could cry no more. He had just fallen onto his bum, still fussing when the door to his room opened and a woman's face peered in.

"He's okay! Thank Merlin we made it in time for him at least..." She said as she pushed the door open wider. Yet when she advanced into his room, Neville let loose a fresh volley of cries, kicking frantically at the stranger. "Awww..." She cooed as she stooped over his cot, " You must be terrified huh? Well it's alright. You're safe now. No one's going to hurt you little one." She whispered soothingly, and slowly reached down to heft the still crying toddler into her arms. "Sssshh, shh, shh shh... It's okay..." She whispered as softly as possible, patting him on the back and slowly rocking him. Yet just as he started to settle down, another person stepped into the room. He was horribly scared and seemed to limp around, one eye near staying trained in the same place twice, "Vance!" He barked, "You've got the boy, let's go!"

This though only served to set the boy off again, hiccupped cries spilling from his lips. The woman, Vance, the man had called her, turned on the newcomer and seemingly glared daggers at him, " Oh piss off, Alastor. The boy's just lost both his mum and dad; he deserves a few minutes without you scarring the bloody life outta him."

"Aye, he did." Growled the man named Alastor, "And Dumbledore ordered him brought back to headquarters immediately. We don't know if those Death Eaters will be back with the cavalry, and we don't have the man-power to stage an all out offensive yet. We need the entirety of the Order, along with the rest of the Aurors. Now," he said, taking a step towards the woman and child, "come o-" Yet before he could finish his sentence, young Neville gave out a shrill cry. One moment he and the woman were standing in the nursery, the next there was a loud _crack_ and the young woman was staring disbelieving at the den of cottage. She could see the blood splatters on the walls, the fragments where the front door had been blasted in, lodging themselves in whatever lay beyond.

Vance tried not to imagine the horror of what must have happened here. She'd barely seen the four death eaters standing over the screaming forms of Alice and Frank Longbottom when she'd first Flooed in, and that had only been for a moment before they'd apparated away- taking their victims with them.

Shaking her head from her momentary reverie, the woman brought brown eyes to bear on the young form of one Neville Longbottom. " My, aren't you the strong one to already be apparating at your age?" She chirped at him, and he seemed to calm down with the absence of Alastor "MadEye" Moody. His eyelids drooped, and Vance knew he must have been worn out, not only from the events of the night, but also the little bit of magic he'd just displayed- Magic that was around the power of a full grown Wizard.

She cradled him against her shoulder and before Alastor could come half stomping- half wobbling down the stairs, the young baby boy was fast asleep again.

Moody reached the bottom step with a growl, but said nothing more as he motioned towards the fireplace and drew a small bit of Floo Powder from the pot next to the fireplace. When the flames lit green, Vance stepped inside and shouted, "Hogwarts, the HeadMasters Office!"

()()()

Over the next few days, so many things happened that Alastor could hardly keep track of them. First there was the argument over what was to be done with the Longbottom boy, not to mention what they would do about his parents. Though Alastor was no fool, he was no coward, either. Despite whatever trap the deatheaters might have set, he would not leave his men in those creatures clutches. He worked tirelessly once he got back to the headmasters Office - both within the Order and within the Ministry itself – to find where the Longbottoms had been taken. Merlin-only-knew how many favors he'd had to call in to get them tracked down, not to mention the few threatened officials. Let it never be said that MadEye Moody was a man to shirk his responsibility to take care of his own.

Sadly, it was this very threatening that had landed him under office lockdown while the rest of his men raided the DeathEater stronghold.

"Sir!" he heard the call of one of his younger recruits, Aaron Mathius, as the young man raced down the hallway to Moody's office. Throwing the heavy wooden door open, the man paused long enough to salute, and Moody returned the gesture.

"What's the word?"

"Sir, Shacklebolt and his squad have confirmed the capture of four deatheaters: the LeStrange family, as well as… sir, they found Mr. Crouch's son, sir. He was with them."

Moody let out a tired growl. That was not going to go over well with the ministry, and with the way Crouch had been levying for Minister, it could only mean bloody times ahead for the family. But that was not his concern, "And the LongBottoms?"

Mathius hesitated, a guilty look crossing his face, and Moody needed nothing more to know what had happened. He closed his eye, and took a deep breath. "How bad?"

"Day's of exposure to the _cruciartus_ curse, sir. They're being kept in Saint Mungo's hospital right now. They… They're not expected to recover, sir."

There was a long pause as Moody composed himself, and when he spoke next, it was in a voice so deep that Mathius nearly didn't hear him. "Thank you, Mathius. That'll be all."

"Sir." Mathius saluted, and closed the door behind him as he left. It was several hours later when Moody finally had the strength to move to the far corner of the room, and remove the single bottle of Firewhiskey from it's hidden compartment in his shelves. In the years to come, he would come to find: it would never be enough.


	2. The Ride Home

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters within, save those that I have created myself.

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

The Ride Home

The sounds of someone screaming tore through the darkness, echoing within the walls of his mind from everywhere and no where all at once. It permeated the very air he breathed. It burned like a flaming sword, slicing through his brain and leaving arcs of indescribable pain.

"MUM!" He shouted into the blackness. He tried to move, to find the source, but as he always did he found himself rooted in place. The darkness closed in, enveloping him, smothering him like a heavy wet cloak, until he could no longer see his hand in front of his face.

And then the voice came, as it always did, with scornful derision— accusing, condemning. "This is your fault. You failed us! You were supposed to be strong like your father! But you're nothing-little more than a Squib! You're useless, Ne—"

"—ville!" A voice all but shouted in his ear. With a start, he shot upward, only to bash his head against another belonging to the voice. He snarled and hissed in pain, lightly rubbing the sore spot. With a glance, he noticed the other person doing the same.

"Sorry, sorry..." A familiar voice whispered from the darkness beyond his eyelids. Neville opened his eyes ever so slightly, and took in the bushy brown hair and slight form of the only one those two attributes could possibly belong to— Hermione Granger. She sat curled up on one end of the bench he lay on, her feet drawn up under her, hand resting against her brow where their heads had collided.

She winced and turned her head gingerly, her soft caramel eyes swimming with tears of apology. "Sorry, I... You were calling out in your sleep. Sounded like a pretty bad nightmare." She hedged for just a moment then pressed on in her own Hermione-ish way. "Are…are you all right, Neville...?"

He wanted to tell her off, that of course he wasn't all right. He wanted to lash out against her, against everyone. He was always like this after one of _those_dreams. Instead, Neville let out a tired sigh, running a hand through his short blonde hair. "Yeah... Yeah I'm fine. Just a bad dream."

Hermione nodded her understanding then hesitated for just a moment, just as Neville predicted. Finally, she pressed, "Do... Do you want to talk about it?"

He'd been prepared to honestly tell her no. Or at least, the thought had been firmly rooted in his mind when he'd first realized it was Hermione sitting across from him. Yet, when he actually heard the words come from her mouth, a part of him actually considered it. Would it honestly be so bad to tell someone? Would it really hurt to finally trust someone—trust them beyond just the title of "friend"?

He honestly didn't know. He'd spent so much of the past four years alone, he wasn't really sure if he even knew _how_to trust like that. Now, to be clear and honest, even with himself, he had no illusions about being a sad and lonely boy—far from it. All the same, he always felt like the outsider, the person who just…couldn't or wouldn't fit in. He wasn't strong like Harry or smart like Hermione, nor was he athletic like Ron. He just was.

Most of the other Gryffindors had their own niches or their own hobbies that dwelled outside his realm of understanding or ability. As such, Neville often times found himself alone, and had grown rather used to the solitude. He could even go so far as to say he'd lost his stutter, his...shyness. True, his shyness would shine through from time to time, but he had no intention to become a bumbling oaf, nor would he allow himself to become a stiff-nosed prick, like so many other high-born Purebloods. But he no longer felt the need to be afraid of everything, including his own shadow. He knew who and what he was: a near-Squib with little in the way of magical prowess, physical strength, or even looks. He'd grown resigned to that and made peace with it.

Yet Hermione's offhand words, her simple concern for him, had awakened something within him he'd thought long-buried, if it ever existed at all. It had stirred a long-dormant yearning for companionship and the need to trust that someone would be there—that someone would care and at least try to understand. Luna had once described it as "almost like having friends." He opened his mouth, hesitant to answer her, yet yearning so desperately to tell her the truth—to tell her everything—when the door to his cabin slammed open so hard it startled him into clamping his mouth shut, nearly biting his tongue.

"Oy, 'mione!" Ron said he stuck his mess of flame red hair through the doorway. "Harry's got us a cabin at the back of the train. Come on, he's waitin' on us."

In that moment, Hermione wished that looks could kill. The glare she pinned on Ron was deadly enough that if it were real, it would have blasted a crater in the side of the train six meters around, and leave nothing but very fine Ron-powder.

She sensed the moment's hesitation in Neville and the sudden indecision—and surprisingly, if she wasn't mistaken, the longing in his eyes. She knew something was wrong, that there was something her friend wasn't telling her. Something he wasn't telling anyone. But what? She had never thought of Neville to be one to keep secrets like Harry often did, yet the more she thought about it, the more she realized just how very little she knew about the Longbottom scion.

In truth, her entire life after her first year had revolved around Ron and Harry through each and every hardship they had endured together. Add to that the sudden tension between herself and Ron after last year's Yule Ball, and she found she hardly had much time for anything else. She decided she could not and would not deny the friend who obviously needed her.

And just when she was sure he was about to open up, just as his mouth had opened to utter what was bothering him so badly that he was calling out in his sleep, _that_ bumbling idiot had to barrel through the door like an Erumpent on a tear. _Okay,__ maybe __not__ quite__ that__ bad,__ but__ ill-timed__ all__ the__ same_.

Glancing back at Neville, she watched him compose himself, banishing the indecision, and allowing the mask fall back in place. She wanted to scream in frustration. More than anything she suddenly wanted to deck Ron. Yet the oaf had apparently some form of wisdom, for before Hermione could even utter one word in anger at him, he'd disappeared back into the corridor of the train.

She let out a long and heavy sigh, shaking her head. She wasn't going to get anywhere with Neville like this. Smiling weakly, she turned back to the blonde-haired boy. "I should probably get going. They'll be wondering where I am."

For a moment, she could have almost sworn she saw Neville's face fall. He nodded, drawing in on himself, but offered no protest. She leaned in and said ever so softly, "Would you like to come along? I'm sure Harry and Ron would be glad to have you."

Again, she noticed that same moment of hesitation, and then it evaporated faster than it had come. He gave a brief smile and nodded as he pushed off the bench. "Sure. Just let me get my thi—oh bloody _hell!_"

He swore, and Hermione stared in absolute shock. She'd never before heard him curse, let alone say a single foul word. It was...disconcerting to say the least. "Neville? What's wrong?"

He let out a deep sigh, he shoulders slumping in exhaustion, "It's Trevor. He's gone missing…_again."_

It took Hermione all of three seconds to comprehend what Neville was saying, and when she did, a slightly rueful smile broke out over her lips. "When will that toad ever learn he needs to stay in his cage?"

Neville turned back to her, surprised and slightly angered at her words… until he saw her face. She was smiling at him, and he realized belatedly that she was actually joking with him. The thought alone was enough to bring a smile to his lips and a shrug to his shoulders, "Dunno. I could always chain him up."

"Well that'd certainly teach him," Hermione replied as she stood, then shook her head. A small smile played across her lips. "Come on, we'll look for him on the way to the other compartment."

Neville nodded and followed Hermione out into the streaming traffic and excited chatter characteristic of the Hogwarts Express. There were always children ranging in age from mere first-years to recently-graduated and legal seventh-years bustling between compartments or milling about, re-hashing the events of the school-year and exchanging summer plans.

Most years, Neville wouldn't have minded the group, but as in his first year, it royally hindered his search for Trevor and increased the risk that the errant amphibian might be squashed underfoot. There were so many people and so many compartments, it seemed impossible to check everywhere. Yet still they persisted, and just as in his first year, Hermione was more than happy to help. In truth, she seemed to make the search easier, more...pleasurable, if that was possible. They bantered and talked about seemingly nothing at all between compartments and for once, Neville actually felt…human.

An odd thing to say, he knew, but it was the truth. A part of him wondered if somewhere along the lines of his life, something had gone wrong. Was he was defunct or broken in some unknown way? He was never good at magic; as a matter of fact, he was never good at anything. Every step Neville took felt like the wrong direction, and he never seemed to understand how to correct to the right track.

He was doing what he needed to, what he was supposed to do, wasn't he? Yet so often it felt so pointless and he didn't know why. Perhaps that was simply another reason he was on the outside, why he never fit in anywhere. Yet here, in this moment it no longer mattered—or so it appeared. In these moments spent joking with Hermione, laughing and being a normal teenage boy, he felt exactly that—_normal_.

"No really, you should have _seen_ Ron's face when that Fleur kissed his cheek! If there was ever such a thing as a _tomato__red_ blush…that was it!" Neville said to Hermione's rolled eyes as he opened the next compartment door and poked his head in. The moment he did, he inwardly cursed his luck.

Platinum blonde hair shifted as gray eyes turned from the window and focused solely on Neville. A wicked sneer split gray-eyes' lips. "Look Crabbe! Ol' Green Thumbs paid us a visit." Malfoy said as cruelly as possible, to the amusement of all those in the compartment. Crabbe and Goyle sat on one side, with Draco and Pansy on the other, the latter of which, had had her head rested against Draco's shoulder until Neville had opened the door.

Neville felt a twinge of annoyance at Draco's persistent usage of those old names, but reined it in and focused on his task, "Look, Malfoy I'm not looking for any trouble. You haven't seen Trevor anywhere, have you?" Neville tried to say in as polite a voice as possible, yet it only brought more cruel sneers from those around him.

"Trevor you say? Isn't that your girlfriend you toady freak?" Malfoy shot at Neville.

It took all his strength not to lash back at the blond ponce. It would do him no good to fight with the ass and Neville knew it.

"Oh come on Longbottom!" Malfoy barked as Neville tried to hold his composure, "I bet if you just kissed the damn thing, maybe you could get yourself a toad nearly half as ugly as yourself!" His comments only brought more laughter from his cronies. Neville let out a growl, then shoved off from the door, forcing himself away and out of the situation. "Hey!" Malfoy called after him, but Neville forced himself to ignore it.

He started towards the next cabin when he heard Malfoy's voice again. "Hey, Toad-licker, don't you turn your back on me when I'm talking to you!"

"Leave him alone, Malfoy!" Hermione all but shrieked.

Neville had initially stilled at Malfoy's words, but at Hermione's shriek had whipped around to stare, too stunned for words. A part of him knew that it was in Hermione's nature- It was in the nature of any person with even half a heart to stand up for those he or she cared about; Neville just never would have considered himself one of those lucky enough to actually be cared about. The girl in question stood firmly planted between Neville and Malfoy, hands on her hips as she leveled her glare on the platinum haired boy. Malfoy had followed Neville out into the hallway, and on seeing Hermione, his sneer shifted from Neville, to the brown-haired girl.

"Well isn't that sweet: the filthy little Mudblood's standing up for her squib boyfriend!" Malfoy cackled as he stepped forward. But before he could take a step further, Neville lunged. Malfoy let out a yelp as one fist clenched the front of his tunic, the other crashing into the boy's face, forcing the platinum haired boy's head into the door behind him before being pulled back for a second crack that sunk the ponce to the floor in a weeping mess.

He let out an agonized scream as he hit the floor, his hands flying to his nose, "Ny node! You boke ny node!" He tried to say, yet Neville cared none for the boy's cries, "Don't you _ever_call her that again!" Neville bellowed, then turned on his heel and stormed away, the crowd of on-lookers parting like the proverbial red sea.

Pansy chose this moment to let out a Banshee's screech, launching herself from the compartment. "Oh, Draco, my poor Draco!" she cried as Neville passed through the car door, slamming it behind him and forcing himself to sit and calm himself down.

Once on the floor, he let out a hiss of pain and held his swollen fist to his chest. Looking at his hand, he could tell that several of them were swollen, possibly broken. Neville cursed inwardly, wondering why in Merlin's name he thought it would be a good idea to deck Malfoy.

"Neville!" Hermione shouted, as she rushed through the car door, then nearly tripped over the boy. He hissed when his wounded hand almost connected with the floor, but otherwise tried to keep his injury away from Hermione's prying eyes. He looked up at her, trying to check the adrenaline coursing through him, and the pounding of his heart. He expected a Prefect's lecture from her about how it was wrong for him to strike another student, even Malfoy. He expected to hear how he could be expelled from Hogwarts before he'd even gotten home for summer holidays.

He hadn't expected her to kneel down and hug him. For all of two full minutes, he sat stock-still, rooted in place as Hermione hugged him. When he finally returned the gesture, he refused to acknowledge the tears brimming at his eyes. But deep inside, he couldn't deny the fact of how much the simple contact affected him- Contact, he so rarely experienced. "Thank you, Neville. Really." she said as she pulled back, a shy smile on her face, "It's...it's not that often that anyone takes up for us Muggleborns."

Neville growled, and shook his head, "It shouldn't be that way." he said vehemently, "No one person has ever been greater then another. Muggleborn, Pureblood, or even Half-bloods - We all breathe the same air, and bleed red blood. We all have to share this world. Just because you were born one place instead of another, doesn't mean you're more entitled to a life than someone else."

"Wish half the world saw things the way you do, Neville." Hermione whispered softly.

Neville shrugged in reply, glaring at the floor. "I've lived a long time believing I was never good enough. I often still believe that, but it helps to think everyone's equal, really. It makes the world more bearable. And it really helps me to understand that everyone has his or her own problems to deal with."

Hermione absorbed that for several moments. "You're very wise for your age, Neville."

He looked up at her then, surprised by her words, and after a moments thought replied, "Thank you."

She smiled, then shifted so she was leaning against the wall next to him, "Wise, but you don't always think everything through. You're more than good enough, Neville. Why would you ever think differently?" Hermione questioned.

Neville only bowed his head in silence again. He didn't feel like bringing up that compared to the accolades afforded his mother and father, he was barely a speck of dirt marring his grandmother's hero-worship. Hermione knew nothing of what happened to his parents—nobody did—and Neville intended to keep it that way.

Finally, Hermione stood up, "come on, we shouldn't keep the others waiting." Then turned and offered her hand to help Neville up. He took it, but absently placed his wounded hand against the floor, momentarily forgetting how damaged it was. The nerves flared in anger, reminding him quite painfully about the wound, and causing him to hiss and quickly shift his weight. Hermione noticed and gasped, "Your hand! You hurt it when you slugged Malfoy, didn't you?"

Neville tried to shrug and hide his hand away, but Hermione was having none of it, "Oh no you don't, Neville Longbottom! You let me see that right now!" she demanded.

After a moment, he let out a sigh, and lifted his hand up for inspection, hissing as she moved it around. "Ow! Hermione, that hurts!"

"I see that," she said, drawing her wand. "_Ferrula_," she muttered, and a length of clean, while linen bandages shot from the end of her wand. Carefully, she wrapped his injured hand and instructed him, "You need to have your gran take you to St Mungo's and have this healed. You've definitely got several broken fingers here, and I'm not a healer."

Neville let out a slight groan. He just _knew_ he was going to get a lovely talking to over this little incident. Still, he wasn't ashamed of it, and when he thought about it, he realized he'd do it again in a heartbeat. He nodded his head finally, and though Hermione looked far from satisfied, she let the matter drop as they finally stood and made their way to Harry's cabin.

As she slid the door open, Ron gave the two a brief greeting before taking note of Neville actually being there. When he did, he sat up with a sudden, "Oi!" He smiled widely then before standing and reaching up onto the overhead rack, "I'm glad ya came mate. Found Trevor on the way back to the compartment, figured I'd get him back to you at the station an all." He stated as he pulled a small cage off the rack, then handed it to Neville. The blonde-haired boy started to smile and thank Ron for at least finding him, when Hermione let out an angry huff.

"Honestly Ron, how can you act like that's okay? If you knew where Trevor was, you should have just taken him back to Neville. How can you be so insensitive?" She lectured, yet at that Ron cut in.

"Oi, how's I bein' insensitive? He's fine ain't he? I even conjured a bloody cage for him!"

"Language Ronald! And not once did you stop to think how Neville must have been feeling! How would you feel if you didn't know where Pig was?"

"Relieved."

"Ugh!" Hermione grunted, looking as if she wanted to strangle Ron, " Honestly Ronald, you can be such a Pra-"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Another voice boomed from the far side of the cabin, and everyone inside jumped at the harsh tone. Neville hadn't noticed him at first, but Harry sat at the end of the compartment, his head leaned against the window, allowing him to stare out over the landscape as it rushed by. He looked drawn, dark circles under his eyes and his hair an oily mess. Neville wondered when he'd last gotten a good night of sleep, and judged that it hadn't been since before the Triwizard Tournament that Harry had slept soundly. Add onto that, the stress of the past few days- no, _weeks_- and it was understandable why he seemingly had such a short fuse.

Not to mention when Hermione and Ron really got to fighting to could be rather nerve racking. And while Neville appreciated what Hermione had done for him, he really did find it unnecessary. Had it been Malfoy, however, that would have been a different story. He shoved that thought to the back of his mind, not wanting to dwell on the simpleton anymore then was needed, and did so just as Ron and Hermione let out muttered apologies to Harry then took up opposing seats in the compartment. Harry turned to Neville and gave him a 'help me' look as Neville took his own seat, one that almost made Neville laugh while at the same time brought a tinge of sympathy for the boy to Neville's chest.

Wasn't he supposed to be able to relax with his friends? To simply _be_ without the hassle of constantly fighting, bickering, and worrying about stepping on someone's toes every minute? That was Neville's belief at least, yet it seemed that since the Yule Ball there had been nothing but strife between Harry's friends. He mulled this over for a few minutes before finally succumbing to the atmosphere that was shortly generated as the others in the cabin relaxed and went back to simply being friends, chattering and joking or simply enjoying a good book. It went this way for most of the train ride; broken only briefly by the reappearance of one platinum-haired prude who was shortly dealt with by hex's from six different wands, in six different directions. The last two hexs came from the wands of none other then the Grand Pranksters of Hogwarts, Fred and George.

After Malfoy and his cronies were put in a more proper place (face down on the floor of the hallway, where everyone could spend a few minutes laughing at their shame) it became a unanimous decision that Exploding Snap would be the best way to spend the rest of the train ride.

When it finally came time for them to reach Kings Cross station, there was a slight flutter of worry in Neville's chest. As much as he loved his Grandmother, he also always dreaded coming back here, for he knew what awaited him. Two months of constant reminders to that fact that he was not, and never would be his father. Add onto that having to explain his broken hand, and this was likely to be another glorious two months spent at home.

After a few more minutes of staring at his luggage still in the rack (everyone else having already exited the compartment), Neville realized he was only procrastinating the inevitable. He let out a soft sigh and grabbed his things off the overhead rack, then started to head out the door when he heard a distinctly familiar voice, "Keep it. I want you to put it towards your joke shop. Trust me, it'll do you a load more good then it will me. And besides... The worlds going to need a good few laughs in the coming days."

There was a long pause before the distinct voice of one of the twins could be heard, "Thanks mate. We won't forget this."

Neville waited a few minutes after that, letting their voices and presences pass before he finally exited the compartment. That had certainly been an interesting turn of events, though he honestly wondered what it could mean. Deciding it best not to worry on such things, he headed out onto the platform, and after a few minutes searching, found himself before his dear Grandmother, Augusta Longbottom.

She gave him a once over, grumbling and fussing about the state of his clothing and hair, but it was nothing compared to the tirade that erupted when she noticed his bandaged hand. He spent the next ten minutes explaining what had happened as they made their way out into Muggle London, and were shortly greeted by their butler. Augusta was an woman of strong beliefs, and she knew the merit's of hard work. It was from this belief that she sought human caretakers rather then the help of any House Elf. You could pay a butler, and they would work hard to see to your every need, and could even relate to your problems, should they arise. Beyond that, a human was far more sophisticated than any House Elf (in her belief anyway) and thus it was that Augusta Longbottom had hired on one Fernando Rodriguez De Garza, a British Colombian, and a gentleman in every sense of the term. He bowed as Augusta and Neville approached the car, opening the back door for the both of them. Once at the door however, Augusta turned on her heel, meeting Neville's gaze squarely. "So let me get this straight. You lost your familiar, and while searching, decided to get into what nearly amounted to a bar-room brawl like some heathen?"

Neville flinched slightly at that, and though he knew her words were a gross over exaggeration he couldn't help but admit it sounded pretty bad. Still, "Yes, but I did it 'cause he in-"

"No, I won't hear any excuses Neville Longbottom. Nothing you could say could excuse the shame you've brought on yourself. What would your father think if he saw you now?" Augusta fumed, her words biting deep into Neville's sense of worth. He had done it for his friend, hadn't he? Shouldn't that have been enough? Surely his father would have done the same? In the end, Neville was left with his head hung low in shame, whilst Augusta let out a tired and contemptuous sigh. She turned to their driver and butler, and gave him the simple order of taking them to St. Mungo's so that Neville could get fixed up, and then straight home afterward. Both journey's were filled with an uneasy silence, Neville spending the car ride staring out the window, wishing with all his might that he were someone else. Wishing that he was someone better, someone his parent's could be proud of. Someone he could be proud of.

How he wished he was anything but a broken child.


	3. Truth Will Out

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters within, save those that I have created myself.

* * *

><p>Chapter 2<p>

Truth Will Out

It was a quiet summer morning that found one Neville Longbottom sitting atop a small hillock outside Longbottom Manor nearly a month later. Like most mornings, Neville would rise with the sun and make his daily pilgrimage to this very spot. Some might find this an odd thing to do, but then Neville never was very normal. But in truth, this was his favorite time of day. It was no secret that he harbored a love of Herbology. The quiet, simple beauty of this world, coupled with the awe-inspiring abilities and properties some plants had left little wonder why he had developed such a fondness for the subject. It was this very love that drove him to rise so early in the morning and come to this very rock, on this very hillock. From this rock, he would watch as the world woke up around him each day: to watch the subtle blues and greens, the orchids and hibiscuses that littered his gran's garden as they opened and drank in the sun's glorious rays. Not to mention the beauty of the morning birds, singing their greeting songs from the forest nearby. There was even a soft morning fog that would roll in, giving the entire atmosphere a slightly mystical feel to it.

Neville drank it all in before turning his gaze to the direction of where he could hear the sound of footfalls against cobbled stone. Not that far away, he caught sight of Fernando making his way down a small trail that followed the perimeter of the entire estate. The middle-aged butler was not dressed in his usual attire, opting instead for a light jogging outfit which he was putting to good use. Neville was reminded at that moment of how this summer had started: how after spending the rest of the day after the train ride going over nearly every spell he'd learned, as he had every summer before that, he had collapsed into his bed worn out and defeated. When Neville had first attended Hogwarts, his gran had agreed to get a license from the Ministry that would allow him to practice his magic within the Longbottom grounds. Yet, hardly a single spell he'd cast had worked, if not exploded in his face. It was frustrating beyond belief, to know that even though he had put forth the effort, nothing he did would work. The next morning, like he had on this day, he had found his way to this very hillock and had spent the morning contemplating his wand. No, his _father's_ wand. Was it to mean that he would never be as strong as his father? Could he not master it? Or was it something else entirely? He just didn't know. As his frustration had built, he'd stood and pulled his wand arm back. Yet seconds before throwing the wand into the morning air, Fernando had stopped him. He had simply smiled down at Neville, then jerked his head in the direction of the path. "Come on. We'll go for a run. It'll feel good."

Though at first he'd been unsure, Neville found he had no reason not to. So he'd joined Fernando on his jog around the estate, and afterwards, when Fernando had asked how he felt, Neville could honestly say he felt...better. True, his muscles burned, and he found himself increasingly short of breath, but at the same time, he'd never been quite so exhilarated, either. Fernando had nodded, and motioned for Neville to join him as he continued his morning workout. It was truly one of the best experiences he'd ever had, and had joined Fernando every morning since. So, as he did every day, Neville stood and joined the butler on his jog and subsequent workout, having quickly grown accustomed to the routine.

True, some might wonder why he should bother with such a tedious exercise; he was a wizard, after all. He didn't need physical might in the slightest. But for Neville, it was different. Every day he spent running and working out was one more day of him growing more confident in himself. Beyond the burn of the workout, and the bone tired weariness, he could feel a change starting. He could feel the tightening of muscle throughout his body, the strengthening of his ligaments. He was actually accomplishing something, and that fact delighted him to no end. While his magic always seemed to fail him, it seemed that if he put forth the effort, his body wouldn't.

As Neville finished his last set of pushups for the day, Fernando pulled him to his feet and handed him a glass of water. Grateful, he took the offered glass with a nod and a murmured thanks, then downed its contents. Handing it back, Fernando took the glass with a smile, and then said, "Now that that's out of the way, I think it's time to prepare for the day. Your gran has something very special planned for you."

Neville grimaced. "Don't tell me it's _another_ blind date," he groaned, panting softly from the exhaustion of his daily routine. "I hate it when she tries to set me up with those supposed noble houses." He spoke the last two words with deep contempt.

Fernando chuckled as they turned and walked out of the room, heading down the corridors that would lead to Neville's quarters. "Is there something wrong with entertaining a beautiful woman to a glorious evening?" he asked innocuously.

"Of course not," Neville replied before shaking his head. "It's just when there's more hot air in their heads than a balloon that it's a problem. Especially since Gran's entire idea is to set me up for marriage." Neville waved his hand in front of his face dismissively. "I'm to what? Marry for money? Power? Standing? Codswallop. If I'm to marry someone, I want it to be because they're the right person for me, you know? Because they can understand what I'm talking about, and are willing to stand by me, through thick and thin."

"To marry for love, essentially?" Fernando asked, and Neville shrugged.

"Maybe. Then again, love can come in many different forms, given time. But... I suppose, yes. To marry for love would be nice."

They walked on, letting a companionable silence fill the air until they reached the door to Neville's room. Opening the door for Neville, Fernando smiled. "Well, I can assure you it isn't that," he said. "No, I think Lady Longbottom has something far grander and more important planned for today, though I can't say what." Neville let that sink in as he walked into his room, noting the clothes Fernando had laid out on the bed for him. Honestly, how the man managed it before Neville showed up for his workout, yet after Neville had awakened, made no sense to the boy. It was its own form of magic. He turned around and thanked Fernando, whose smile widened slightly. "It was my pleasure, Master Longbottom. And may I add as a final note...happy birthday." With that, he pulled the door shut, leaving a stunned and slightly bewildered Neville in his wake.

Neville stared after him for several long seconds, digesting what the man had said. It was July 30th. His birthday. He would be fifteen years old within the day. With everything that had happened, the likely return of the Dark Lord, Cedric's death, his own training... He'd completely forgotten what day it was, not to mention the significance. Besides, it wasn't like he had very many reminders of the fact. It was a sad truth that Neville's birthday was not widely known. Then again, most people had their own lives and worries and whatnot, and he wouldn't condemn them for that. And, like it or not, he himself knew what a private person he was. Very few took note of him, and in a way, he didn't mind that. Still, there were times when the loneliness would strike home, and rather bitterly at that. His birthday was one such day.

There were things that alleviated it, though, he thought to himself. Like Fernando's well-wishes. After everything that man had done for him, there was little Neville could do to deny him. With that thought, he pushed past the loneliness and dark thoughts that had taken up residence in his mind, and set about cleaning himself up for the day.

After a quick bath and shave, he dressed himself in the clothes Fernando had set out for him: a simple long-sleeved white button up shirt and black slacks, with matching leather shoes. Despite his young age, his gran always insisted that he wore clothing befitting his station, rather than what he found comfortable, thus the lack of T-shirts and jeans in his wardrobe. However, he was just glad that he'd been able to talk her out of wizarding robes as she'd originally wished, and thankful he had had Fernando along to assist him in picking out suitable Muggle wear. As it was, he often found he enjoyed the more formal clothing, and had even been allowed to indulge in his own form of guilty pleasure, cuff links. Even now, he wore one of his favorite sets, a shining silver set with inlaid reddish topaz orbs.

Once dressed, he made his way down the hallways and spiralling stairways to the dining room where his grandmother would be waiting for him. Upon seeing him step through the large oak doors, his gran swept across the expanse of the large room, and pulled Neville into a rare hug. He smiled, and enjoyed it while it lasted, knowing inwardly that today was one of the few times his grandmother would show that despite his failures, she did love him.

"Happy birthday, Neville," she said as she pulled away, then lead him over to the long dining table that stood prominently in the middle of the room. "I've had Fernando prepare you a cake, and then after that I have something very special, very important, to give you." He nodded, and took his seat as Fernando came in carrying a rather large plate and serenading his own version of "Happy Birthday". Setting the plate down, Neville found what had to be the single most scrumptious looking cake he'd seen: a triple fudge cake with green - likely peppermint - icing. Few knew it, but chocolate happened to be one of his few weaknesses, one that he rarely indulged in. It took him only a few moments to think up a wish and blow out the dancing cold fire lights that flickered over the top of his cake, then dig in.

"Merlin," Neville murmured as he took his first bite. "Fernando, one of these days you are going to have to teach me how you make such glorious food."

Fernando smiled at that. "It would be my pleasure, Master Longbottom, to show you the ways of the culinary arts one day."

"You know what, here," Neville said as he cut a third slice and handed it to a wide eyed Fernando. "Have some. I think every chef should have a chance to taste their own delicious works."

"Neville I think that may be highly ina-" Augusta started, but Neville overrode her before she could get started, with a satisfied smile, "Yes, but it's my birthday. I insist, Gran." He turned to the butler. "Will you sit with us? Please?" he asked.

The expression on Fernando's face softened to a degree that Neville had never seen before, his smile becoming all the warmer for it. "It would be my pleasure, sir," he replied before taking a seat next to Neville. The three of them finished the cake rather quickly after that, and Augusta stood and motioned for Neville to follow her as she made her way out of the dining room. As they walked, Augusta inclined her head to her grandson.

"Neville," she said, her expression serious. "How much do you know of the Longbottom history?"

"Not much, to be honest," Neville answered. "I know dad was an amazing man, but beyond that..." His voice trailed off and he shrugged, his gran nodding.

"I imagined as much. Let me tell you a little bit of a story, then. Something that has been passed down throughout our family for generations." He nodded, and she focused on recounting the tale as best she could.

"Did you know that you were not the first Near-squib in our family?" she said. "In the early days, when our family was first founded by one Augustine Longbottom, he had a son by the name of Cornelius. Cornelius was terrible at magic, a fact that was of no small amount of worry to Augustine. In those dark days, a witch or wizard's daily life was one of constant struggle, constant strife. If he could not fight, could not produce magic, he would die. And sadly, Cornelius was and would be, Augustine's only son. So Augustine formulated a plan.

"Taking every bit of his own knowledge of magic, Augustine recorded everything he could into a single book. This book he gave to his then fifteen year old son, to study and learn the ways of magic. And learn them he did. For the next two hundred years, Cornelius Longbottom continued his father's work, and like his father before him, he recorded everything he knew into the same book before passing it on to his own son.

"It became tradition among the Longbottom family, that each first-born son should inherit the book, learn from it, and record everything he himself knew within it. As the generations passed, measures were placed on the book, to keep it safe from those who were not of the Longbottom line. Too much could be learned from those pages, and in the wrong hands it could prove devastating."

Pausing as they reached a set of massive oak doors, doors that Neville recognized as leading to the Longbottom study, Augusta turned to look at him. "Today, is your fifteenth birthday, and as is tradition within our family, you shall inherit the Longbottom Grimoire, as your father before you did, and his father before him. Take care, my young Neville, and know that the power you will now hold is unlike anything you have encountered before." Turning, she pushed open the doors without a single sign of strain, a testament to the strength of the old woman's will, and stepped into the grand study.

Books upon books stood on the shelves that lined the walls from the ground of the first floor, to the roof nearly five magically expanded floors up. Cold fire candles flickered and danced all about the study, but none more prominently then those that danced over the crystalline chandelier in merry reds and golds at the center of the study. It was under this very chandelier that Augusta turned, noting her grandson's wide-eyed look. "Ah, yes," she said. "I keep forgetting that you've never been in here before. Sadly, before this day, I could not bring you to this place, nor even speak of it. And now, you will know why."

Her words drew his attention away from the study and to her as she stood in the center of the room. It was then that Neville also noted something else: within the perfect circle that could only have been formed by magic, were thousands of tiny runes. Each individual rune said something different and each rune helped to form a larger picture, one that Neville recognized as the Longbottom Leaf. The crest of their family tree.

"What I am about to do, Neville, may startle you. Do not allow it to," she said, her sharp eyes locking on his as she reached into the folds of her robes and drew out her wand.

When next she opened her mouth, the words that she spoke were foreign to Neville, a rhythmic and lilting tongue that Neville felt seep into his bones. It started low, with long drawn out words, nearly reverent. Yet with each word, each phrase, he felt the intensity of her words grow, even without knowing what she said. As her crescendo grew, she slowly drew her wand across the palm of her hand, and Neville realized with a start that it was blood he was seeing pool in her hand. Slowly, she overturned her palm, and let the crimson fluid spill out over the runes, which soon began to glow with a warm, deep red glow. A moment later, the wound upon her hand sealed up, allowing Augusta to raise her hands over her head, her words growing faster, louder, shorter, until she was nearly screaming them at the top of her lungs. As she did, the entire study began to tremble, the runes expanding outward from the crest, stretching over the wooden floors and columns, and creeping over the hundreds of books. Slowly she began to slide her hand along the length of her wand, and with every quarter inch the study would rumble more. The cold fire lights began to shift through a thousand different colors, and as her voice reached its climax, her fingers drawn over the last inch of her wand, the lights flared with such an intensity that even through his closed eyelids they momentarily blinded him.

When finally he opened his eyes again, he looked through a much darker room, until his eyes rested upon a smiling Augusta Longbottom. "This," she said, holding up a tome of deep red leather that looked to be no more then a few hundred pages long, "is the Longbottom Grimoire." And it was then that Neville noticed how close the ceiling was. Within the blinding flash of light, four entire stories of books had simply vanished, the crest and chandelier along with them. In their place was the simple tome Augusta presented to him.

"It's yours now, Neville," she said quietly. "All you need do is draw your bloodied hand across the spine. It will imprint to you, so that you, and only you, may access its knowledge. Anti-climactic, perhaps, but it is what it is."

He eyed her incredulously, a small smile on his lips. If that wasn't climactic to her, he shuddered to think what would be. Shunting that thought off to one side, he drew out his wand with his left hand and cast a light cutting curse across the palm of his hand. Ignoring the pain, he gripped his right hand closed while he put away his wand, then took the book in his free hand. From there, he placed his right hand at the top of the spine, and slowly began to draw it along the length of the book, allowing his blood to seep into the aged leather. As he did, something most peculiar began to happen. At first, it started with a sudden stillness of the air, almost as if it was a pressure against his very mind. As it grew, he felt another pressure – two, in fact, centered on his shoulders. Curious, he turned his attention away from the book, and glanced over his left shoulder. What he saw there made him nearly drop the book in utter shock. There, on his left, stood the ethereal form of a man that shared a startling resemblance to his father.

"Dad?" he whispered in a low tone, and watched his father smile back at him.

"Hello, son."

Turning to his other shoulder, he noted with tears in his eyes the form of what could only be his mother." Mum..?" he whispered, his tone so low it was as if the mere air it took to say it were something sacred, something to be treasured. She beamed at him, and he felt her grip tighten ever so slightly on his shoulder.

"Hi, baby," she said, her voice full of warmth and comfort.

"I don- wha- Gran, are you..? Gran?" He raced over his tear-filled words, each one tumbling faster and faster out of his mouth until he turned back to his grandmother. His grandmother, who was neither breathing, nor blinking. No, hers was a stillness beyond that of even death, and as Neville's eyes widened, he realized that he could see every speck of dirt that floated in the air, every molecule of the world around him.

"Don't worry," his mother said, noting his attention on his grandmother. "She's alright. But this is not for her eyes, her ears. For her, time has stopped. In this moment, the world has stopped, and granted us a chance to speak to you. Personally."

"I-I don't understand. How? A-are you dead?" Neville asked, turning his attention back to his mother, who shook her head ever so slightly.

"That is a difficult question to answer, love. While our bodies live, eat, and breathe in Saint Mungo's, our spirits have long been wandering the world. And we have spent those years watching over you."

"Son, I want you to know something," his father said as he tightened his grip on Neville's shoulder, "I am so very, very proud of you. You are everything I hoped you would be, and more. Never forget that."

"And so am I," his mother continued. "I can never truly express the love I feel for you in my heart. The pride I feel, in the man you are - and the man I feel you will become."

"Son, there are things you need to know though. Truths that must be revealed."

"Dark days are coming, baby."

"And you're going to need to know what you're up against. I hate that it has to fall to you, but know that you aren't alone. Before we were forced to leave you, your mother and I wrote a letter to you, on the off chance that something might happen to us. It's within the pages of the Grimoire. Read it, and use the knowledge it gives you wisely. "

"No matter what, love-"

"Never give up."

"Keep moving forward-"

"And never forget."

"We love you, Neville Longbottom." They finished in unison, and Neville found himself sobbing as he clenched his chest. There was pain - pain in his heart, in his mind. But it was a good kind, odd as that might sound. It was as if some indescribable void that he had never even known existed were suddenly filled beyond its limits. As if some dagger that had long been driven into his heart, and had been slowly draining the life from his body, had been ripped free, and the wound sealed tight.

He was loved. His parents loved him. Needed him. Were proud of the man he was. Those words meant more to him then all the spells and riches on the planet. With those words, he could live a happy life. A happy man. For they gave him that strength to carry on. They ripped at the weights of his life and tore them asunder.

"I love you too, Mum. Dad. I always have. And I always will," he whispered, tears of happiness streaming down his face.

"We have to go now, son."

"But know this, Neville: we will always be here for you. Always."

"Goodbye," they whispered, and quietly, Neville whispered it back.

"Who are you saying goodbye to?" Augusta asked a moment later, and Neville shook his head, a small smile on his lips as the world returned to normal.

"No one, gran. No one at all."

* * *

><p>It was near noon that day when Neville finally made his way back to his room. After the events with the Grimoire, he spent as much time as he could trying to learn all he could about the book's uses from his gran. Surprisingly, she knew very little about how the book actually worked. As it turned out, only the firstborns had any kind of access to the Grimoire - them, and those they chose to allow access. Unfortunately, his grandmother had never truly had the chance to learn how the book worked, beyond the ceremony of binding the book to the next heir. He would just have to learn as he went, it would seem.<p>

And thus it was that in the process of trying to learn how the book truly worked, he had found the letter spoken of by his mother and father in his vision. It looked plain enough, with a simple blue envelope that simply read "To: Neville Longbottom, our son" across the front. Yet Neville could feel a faint thrum of energy passing through the parchment within, and wondered. Did his mother's statement of it being for his eyes and ears alone extend to this, as well? He couldn't be sure, but decided to err on the side of caution and thus make his way to his quarters before closing and locking the door.

Gently, he set the Grimoire down atop his bed, taking a seat next to it and the letter in hand. With a slight tremble of trepidation, Neville turned the letter over, and broke the wax seal that held the letter closed. As he did, he felt the letter tug free of his hand and quite literally float up in front of him. It shifted, and Neville realized belatedly that he was looking at a Howler, or at least, a form of one. Yet, instead of the screeching banshee voice of his gran, he was greeted by the now all too familiar voice of his mother: soft, and full of life and love. One could almost hear the laughter that filled her every breath, the joy that permeated her being.

"Hello, Neville," she started, and he felt those same tears rise to his eyes, "How are you? Well, I hope."

"He has your genes, love, so I imagine he's doing just fine. Probably quite the charmer, too!" The deep timber of his father's voice reverberated from the Howler, and Neville found himself smiling at his words.

"Oi, prat, this is my section, go get your own!" She whined, momentarily shifting into more casual speech, and Neville could swear he heard what almost sounded like his mother swatting his father. She giggled, and her laughter filled her voice when she continued. "Now, where was I? Oh right: I hope you truly are well, my Neville. If you're hearing this, then it means our worst fears came true. I'm sorry. I only wish we could have had more time with you. Know this, Neville: I love you. I have since the moment I gave birth to you. I could tell, even then, that you would grow up to be a strong man. Proud. Like your father. I hope you didn't inherit any of his dorky shyness-"

"Oi!" Neville heard his dad interrupt, but for all intents and purposes, his mother ignored him save to raise her voice over his at first: "But if you have, just keep moving forward. Believe in yourself, and you'll grow out of it. Remember, you're one half McKinnon, and we McKinnons are bold as brass!" She ended with a stern voice, and Neville could hear her pausing for effect, one that was ruined the moment she broke down laughing. "Honestly, Neville, no matter what you are: know that I'm proud of you."

"We both are, Neville." His father picked up where his mother left off, and after a deep breath, continued. "There are so many things I wish I could say; wish I could _do_ for you. In the end, I'll do all I can, even if it means betraying the Order and Dumbledore's trust in us.

"There's something you should know. I imagine with the way things are going, you've probably heard of Harry Potter, if not grown up with him. The Potters and the Longbottoms have always been close families, and I hope that you've been continuing that tradition, because what I'm about to tell you will bring the two of you closer then ever before.

"Before you and Harry were born, there was a prophecy that was made. A prophecy, that was supposed to foretell the downfall of Lord Voldemort. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies."

"I'm sure that there was more, but that much was what Dumbledore told us. For you see, the prophecy pointed at two children who could have the power to destroy Voldemort. Harry...and you. That is why we went into hiding towards the end of the war. We were told that Voldemort had heard at least this much of the prophecy, and would be coming.

"In the end, it cost James and Lily their lives. But son, you must understand: just because the end result of the prophecy seems to have been aimed at Harry doesn't mean that you didn't have it in you as well. And this is where I must ask something of you that no parent should have to ask of their child.

"It's our belief that Voldemort isn't dead. They say that all that was left of him was a crater and his rags. But where's the body? There has to be something. And with the way Dumbledore is acting - refusing to allow us to adopt Harry in Sirius' stead, putting him with those Muggles 'for his protection'" –his father spoke that phrase with obvious disgust– "the whole thing leaves an ill taste in my mouth. Protection from what? The Death Eaters? How are Muggles supposed to defend against that? No, there's something more here, something he isn't telling us. Alice and I believe that it's because Voldemort isn't truly dead yet. And if that's the case, you're going to need to be prepared.

"But not just you, Neville. Harry would have – should have – been your brother, with James and Lily's death, and Sirius's incarcrration. And lately...I've been finding I don't trust the way Dumbledore's been acting. And I fear… I fear Harry won't be ready. So you're going to have to get him there.

"And on that note: within this letter, you should find a second one. It's a clearance note, signed by your mother and I. Hopefully, Gringotts will still take it. It will allow you into the family vault on your own - but it'll only work once. I fear that if you're hearing this, then you're staying with my mother, Augusta, and I know from personal experience how…intractable she can be. Use the note to take as much as you think you'll need. I pray Mum didn't stick you with a secondhand wand like she did me, but if she did, your first priority should be to get it replaced. I don't care how powerful mum thinks the wand is. Those things are bloody fickle, and an unfitted wand is likely to do more harm then good.

"As far as magic... Well, I'll assume you're going to Hogwarts, but even so: use the Grim. It can be a little...unnerving at first, but there is so much knowledge it can bestow. I doubt you'll ever be able to learn everything there is to know in there - that would be beyond impossible - but there should be enough knowledge there that it'll prove a useful assistant to any efforts you might have. You'll see what I mean when you open it. Oh, and bring a quill with you.

"All I have left to say is...do everything you can. Trust in yourself. In your friends. And know that I believe in you Neville. Wherever you are, we will always be watching over you."

As his voice faded, the letter fluttered to the floor, yet Neville remained rooted in place. He wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to feel at that moment. Fear? Excitement? Rage? Did it even matter? Each emotion came, and went as fast as the one before it, leaving Neville drained and staring at the note on the floor. He was to fight a war. And not just any war, but a war against one of the darkest wizards in ages.

_But I'm not alone._ Those words were the only thing that kept him going at that moment, and not absolutely paralyzed with fear. How could he let it? Deep down, Neville was a fiercely loyal young man, and it was that sense of loyalty that pushed him when everything else failed. He had a purpose now, and knowing that Voldemort was back, a reason to hurry. Thus far, the Dark Lord had decided to stay quiet, but there was no telling how long that would last. But more than that, Neville knew he was still underage. There would be no way to combat the Dark Lord if he had to worry about the Ministry every step of the way. But perhaps he could find a way to circumvent that. It was something to think on.

Either way, he had a mission now, and it would likely be best if he got started as soon as possible. Quickly, he grabbed a bag out of his closet and put the Grimoire, a quill and ink as his father had suggested, and the letter from his parents inside. He checked the clearance note, a highly technical-looking parchment stating that Alice and Frank Longbottom granted their son, Neville Longbottom, full access to the family vault for one day on his fifteenth birthday, without a parent or guardian's supervision. That went in the bag with the rest of his things before he slung it all over his shoulder, his father's wand going in his pocket.

Now came the hard part. Despite his parent giving him the clear go-ahead, Neville knew it was the proper thing to do to at least _try_ to talk to his gran. If she didn't want to listen, he'd just go anyways.

_You're one half McKinnon, and we McKinnon's are bold as brass!_ He smiled as he recalled his mother's words, her voice ringing in his head as if she herself supported his decision. Steeling himself, he headed down to the main sitting room, where his gran often spent the day.

Quietly, he stepped into the large wood-paned room, noting the blazing fireplace along the far left wall, and as he suspected, Gran in her armchair opposite it. With a knock of his knuckle against the door frame, his grandmother turned her attention to him. "Neville!" she said. "Already brimming with questions? As I said before, I don't know much more than you about the Grimoire." She glanced at the bag in his hands, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "Planning a venture somewhere, dear? Maybe to try some new spell? I've always wondered what you would be like once you had the Grimoire."

"Actually Gran, there's...there's something I need to talk to you about." Neville's words came out more timidly than he would have liked, but he steeled himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out. "I'd like to go to Diagon Alley."

Augusta gave her grandson a curious stare. "Whatever for?" she asked.

"I...er...I need some extra supplies for next year that I forgot about..." Neville replied, suddenly finding his stomach fluttering as nerves set in. It _was_ true that he needed supplies, but in honesty, he knew he was stalling - a measure his grandmother saw through all too easily.

She let out a small sigh, then said, "Whatever supplies you may need are available right here at home, dear. Whether it's for spellwork, or...or, that Herbology you were so interested in. Goodness, we have a whole garden which you were so insistent on getting for whatever ingredients you might need."

Neville cringed at that, the butterflies turning to burning rods in his belly. He had insisted on the garden when he'd first began to realize his love of Herbology, and even planned to expand it one day to include his own magical greenhouse. But all that would have to wait for now. How could he tell her what he wanted? That he needed a wand of his own? Dare he bring up the letter? No, best to keep that secret for now. His grandmother had long been a staunch supporter of Dumbledore, and he _knew _she would not take kindly to any slander or doubt cast upon him, especially with the campaign the Daily Prophet was putting out.

When Neville didn't answer, she pressed on, and Neville knew he was out of time. "What do you require?" she asked primly.

Neville shrank, twisting his fingers nervously as he tried to gather his courage. "W-well..." he stuttered, his voice becoming even softer. "It-it's my wand..."

Augusta's eyes widened, and she gripped the side of the armchair. "Your wand? Is it not working properly?" Neville looked away in shame as she continued, her voice becoming sharper: "Neville Longbottom, are you telling me that you have...damaged your father's wand?"

"What? No!" Neville said quickly, his head snapping up and his voice coming out louder than he meant it to. Softening his tone, he continued. "No, no, there's nothing wrong with the wand, Gran." Augusta continued to fix him with an inquiring stare, and he drew himself up to full height, taking a deep breath.

_Bold as brass. Bold as brass. Just say it!_ Neville told himself, but found the words lodged in his throat. Why was this suddenly so hard? Finally, he opened his mouth. "Father's wand works fine, Gran. What I mean is...it's not _my_ wand. Remember what Mr. Ollivander always says about the wand choosing the wizard? This wand...chose my father. It didn't choose me. If I'm going to practice with the Grimoire - if I'm ever going to live up to my true potential as a wizard, I need my own wand, one that's chosen me, and no one else, as its wielder."

But if Augusta heeded her grandson's words, she didn't show it. "Nonsense," she said sharply. "Pay no mind to Ollivander and his old fool's wisdom. You should count yourself fortunate you have been given possession of that wand. It has all of your father's history in it, all of his experience. It is the only thing that will help you. And for goodness' sake, you're nearly a grown man. What should happen if you suddenly expose yourself to an entirely new conduit for your magic? Your skills are lacking as they already are, and no new wand will obey you." She sighed again. "No. Keep your father's wand, dear. It is the most useful object you will ever have."

"But it's not _mine_," Neville protested. "How do we know a new wand won't work for me? How do we know that my father's wand is best for me?"

Augusta stood up then, a cold form of fury over taking her features. "Are you saying your father's wand is not up to the task of serving you? That it is not...worthy of you?"

"Gran, that's not-"

"First he gives his life and mind for you, and now when his wand is at your side, you would throw it away?"

"Gran-"

_"No."_ She spoke so harshly that Neville nearly flinched as if struck. "No, Neville," she continued a moment later, her voice slightly softer, "I will hear no more of this foolishness. You are blessed beyond measure with this wand, and I will not let you dispose of it like used parchment. I will not have you disgracing you father's memory as your mother so often disgraced this family."

Yet instead of being the end of the discussion as Augusta had intended, her words had instead awakened a side in Neville he didn't even know he had. In the space of a single breath, his jaw hardened, his body straightening as he stood to his full height. For one terrifying moment, there was fire in Neville's eyes as he towered over Augusta, the weeks of training with Fernando giving his normally slight figure a rather ominous shadow. There was a split second's movement - faster then Augusta's eyes could track - when she suddenly found herself staring down the glowing tip of Neville's wand. For the first time in his life, Neville could sense a quiver of fear in his grandmother, a moment of doubt as his father's wand crackled with energy. "Don't you _ever_ talk about my mother like that," Neville said through clenched teeth, and Augusta was forced to take a step back from his wrath.

As she did, Neville moved with her, positioning himself so that the fireplace was at his back, the floo power accessible to his free hand. "I tried to talk to you about this, Gran," he said, fuming. "Tried to get you to grant me this simple request gracefully. But I don't need you for it at all - my father saw to it that I would have all I would need to get my own wand. So that's exactly what I'm going to do: get my own wand, and whatever else I need. In case you didn't notice, there's a war brewing, and I plan to be prepared. When I get back, you can bloody _snog_ the wand for all I care."

Barely stopping to glance at Augusta's bewildered expression, he shifted and grasped a handful of powder. Tossing it in the fireplace, he stepped back and bellowed, "_Diagon alley!"_ before being consumed in the emerald flames.


End file.
